Ich Steige Auf und Ich Falle
by rose-colored-sunset
Summary: He had been mocked and belittled his whole life...by his family, his friends, and even his colleagues. Perhaps his confidence and leadership ability did leave something to be desired. He could admit that, to a degree. But why did no one seem to give a damn about his *good* qualities? (A collection of short stories and brief character studies, focusing on Colonel Klink.)
1. Anxiety

_"Ich Steige Auf und Ich Falle"_

_(I Rise and I Fall)_

...

_I. Anxiety_

Despite all of his willpower, Klink couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He couldn't recall his nerves being this rattled before. He was, of course, used to General Burkhalter's visits by now. He was even learning to prepare himself for whenever that awful Hochstetter from the Gestapo appeared at his stalag, too - a particularly singular achievement.

But he could never have imagined the way Burkhalter had stormed into his office just moments ago, red-faced and shouting with fury.

"You bumbling fool! How could let a dozen prisoners escape right under your nose? You are a _disgrace_ to the Third Reich. I should have sent you to the Russian Front long ago! How can I trust you to rule this stalag efficiently when such a disaster is allowed to happen?"

Klink could do no more than bow his head. Shame and panic set his already rapid heart beat to a painful rhythm. He had no answers to give his superior, no simple solution to provide. He suspected that Colonel Hogan was somehow involved in this whole mess, and that notion made him want to drown out his growing anxiety with a whole bottle of schnapps.

"_H-herr General,_ I can...I will get those prisoners back," he stuttered. "My guards are searching for them now, as we speak..."

Burkhalter turned away from him, grumbling darkly under his breath. He inhaled through his nose and faced Klink again on the exhale.

"Why I _ever_ thought to entrust you with the responsibilities of this camp is something I'll never understand," he growled. "If those guards return empty-handed, Klink, you are finished. Do I make myself clear?"

Klink nodded distantly. He thought he heard Burkhalter's heavy footsteps as he left the room, along with the door slamming behind him. But his anxiety chose that moment to boil over, and a crushing weight filled up inside his chest like he actually _was_ drowning. Oh God, it was happening again. No, no, no, he had to get a grip on himself, he couldn't lose control like the last time...

_Breathe, Wilhelm, just like you've practiced, _reminded a voice in his head, a voice that tried _desperately_ to sound soft and calming. _In through the nose, out from the mouth. In...out...in...out... _

But it was too late, and Klink knew that nothing could be done about it now. He sank down to the floor, hugged his knees tightly to his chest, and prayed that this moment of weakness would soon pass.

...

_Notes_

Thank you so much for reading! My apologies for not updating my other _Hogan's Heroes_ story in a while. Real life got in the way, of course. To help me *try* to get into a routine of writing, I thought I'd try to bring a few other ideas (like this one) to life.


	2. Revelations

_II. Revelations_

He didn't know how long he sat huddled on his office floor, struggling to get air through his lungs, his eyes fixed to the overcast sky beyond his open window. Minutes, even _years,_ easily could have passed beyond his sphere of observation. It wouldn't have changed anything.

_Please God, _he begged silently, because he felt almost certain that his end was approaching. _Please don't let me suffer like this anymore! _

Klink squeezed his eyes shut, and a moment later, unbidden tears spilled down his cheeks. His ragged breaths subsided somewhat until they became quiet, hiccuping sobs.

At last, some of the unbearable anxiety began to ebb away - trickling out through his feet, it seemed, and sinking into the ground. He eventually forced his lungs to cooperate, pulling in deep breaths and expelling them with a loud _whoosh_. In, out. In, out. He could finally feel his heart trying to find its normal rhythm again, as well.

"Kommandant? Is...is everything all right?"

The voice startled Klink so abruptly that he feared for a moment that he would nosedive again. He snapped his head upward, and heat swelled in his face when he recognized who had spoken.

"Co-Colonel...Hogan," he said weakly.

Klink felt an overwhelming surge of horror and embarrassment just then. How long had Hogan been standing there...a minute, or perhaps more? There was no doubt in Klink's mind that Hogan had witnessed his pathetic display of helplessness. Would he try to use that to his advantage in some way? After all, the man _did_ seem to take a cruel sort of pleasure in tormenting him at any opportunity.

And why, the kommandant lamented, did that damned troublemaker always seem to appear when he was at his most vulnerable?

"May I help you up?" asked Hogan. He stepped forward to extend his left hand.

Klink reached up and grabbed onto the colonel without really thinking. He still felt unsteady; his brief descent, both physically and emotionally, had left him off-balance. The stubborn shaking in his hands could definitely attest to that.

_Dear Lord, I'm a walking mess, _he thought.

He sighed with gratitude as Hogan led him over to his desk. The colonel had one hand planted on his arm and the other on his back. As he eased into his chair Klink let his head fall back, taking a few more soothing breaths. His eyes slid shut to block out the light overhead. Hogan didn't withdraw his hand from his arm, as if he intended to keep the kommandant grounded.

After a prolonged interval of silence, Hogan spoke again.

"What happened, Sir?" he asked. "Should I run and try to get Helga or Hilda to call the hospital?"

Klink shook his head.

"No, I'm fine now. Sometimes I have these..._bad moments_. They're usually brought on by stress. They never last very long. I always feel this awful pressure in my chest and then I...I start to panic."

Hogan appraised him for a second. Klink couldn't quite read his expression, but he could almost imagine that the man felt pity for him on some level.

He didn't have to imagine that for much longer, because Hogan's next words certainly caught him by surprise.

"Huh...that sounds a lot like my brother, John." His eyebrows folded inward with concern. "Sometimes he'll get real agitated and hyperventilate. Some doctors called it an anxiety disorder. Others said he was crazy."

On one hand, Klink was relieved to hear that he wasn't the only one who suffered from bad moments or an "anxiety disorder", or whatever the hell it was called. But, on the other hand, he didn't enjoy the idea that his problem could be dismissed outright as a form of insanity by a supposed medical professional. He slumped forward, resting his face in his hands.

"Is there any cure for...for whatever this is that I have?" Klink moaned. "I've lived with it for so long, Hogan, and it's only getting _worse_."

He looked up just in time to see his counterpart offer a dubious shrug.

"I don't know," said Hogan. "John isn't doing much better, the last I heard from my folks. They wanted to get him in to see a psychiatrist. Have you thought of trying that at all, Sir?"

Klink almost laughed in his face. _Of course I've tried it,_ he wanted to say, _and everyone I've tried has told me the same thing. That I'm just "sensitive to stress" or "abnormally tense" and that I should avoid it as much as possible. __I actually used to believe that__ I had conquered this beast, that it didn't reign over my life anymore. Until a few years ago, that is, when my belief was shattered._

"I'd rather not discuss this in depth with you right now, Hogan," he said. "In fact, if you _don't_ mind, I would prefer to be left alone. I have a crisis on my hands, and if I don't take care of it, General Burkhalter will..." He stopped, not even daring to dwell on _that_ prospect again, much less voice it out loud to Colonel Hogan. "Dismissed."

Hogan nodded, a small, tight movement of his head.

"Glad I could help," he said, with just the slightest wisp of sarcasm. "You know where to find me, of course, if stuff hits the fan."

With those final words, Hogan turned and was gone.

...


	3. Interlude

_III. Interlude_

For much of that afternoon, Klink struggled to cast the awkward interaction with Hogan from his mind. He had regained a more solid grasp of his faculties since their encounter. But the urgent question of how to recapture the twelve escaped prisoners also continued to taunt him.

His second-in-command, Captain Gruber, periodically tried to keep him updated on the search team's progress. Gruber felt hopeful that the stalag guards would return successfully, with all of the prisoners alive and well. Klink appreciated Gruber's optimism, and he wished it would start rubbing off on _him_ a little. His store of hope was certainly running low at the moment, especially when he knew that Sergeant Schultz was in charge of the mission.

"Schultz may be a buffoon at times, but he takes these kind of matters seriously, Kommandant," Gruber had assured. "The safety and return of our prisoners is a _must."_

The captain was right on all counts, although Klink hated to admit the second one. Even though he was a buffoon (_and a great pain in my side, too!_ he thought), Schultz understood his duty and more or less followed through on it. Now, if he could only figure out how to keep that lumbering oaf from fraternizing with the prisoners...particularly the ones in Barracks 2!

His concerns quickly returned to Hogan again. He still suspected that the officer had organized the escapes in some way. After all, he did head up a sort of "escape committee" among his men if memory served right. If those twelve prisoners could not be recaptured, it would reflect directly on Klink's competence as a leader as well as on his "no-escape record".

Perhaps Hogan's intention was to make a mockery of him, which would force Burkhalter to assign Stalag 13 to another kommandant. Perhaps even a kommandant who would be far more lenient and forgiving!

That thought sent a coil of resentment through him. Didn't he always try to treat the prisoners fairly? To satisfy their basic needs, to get them their Red Cross packages and mail and required physical exercise? Was it not _enough_?

General Burkhalter's words suddenly seemed to reverberate in his ears again: _You bumbling fool ... I should have sent you to the Russian Front long ago ... You are finished!_

Klink squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so would keep all of the unpleasant memories at bay. No. _No!_ He was _not_ a fool. He was _not_ finished. The prisoners would be found and Colonel Hogan, if he truly _was _involved in their exodus, would be punished.

But, the way things were currently shaping up, a part of Klink wondered if this was just a pitiful attempt at wishful thinking.

...


	4. Frustration

_IV. Frustration_

Klink couldn't stand it any longer. He cursed himself for trying to put off the inexorable, and still very pressing, issues at hand by letting his mind race in useless circles. He _had_ to pry some answers out of Hogan at once! If he was going to make any sort of progress in fixing this dilemma, and preferably avoid Burkhalter's wrath a second time, he needed to take the initiative.

The kommandant called upon two of his lieutenants to fetch Hogan, (with additional orders to drag the colonel out of Barracks 2 by his eagles if need be). As he waited, he tried to keep his anger in check. He felt that pressure surge inside his chest once more, but thankfully, it wasn't as overpowering as it had been earlier. A few measured breaths helped to keep it at bay for the moment.

_I will not let this problem hold sway over me, _Klink told himself fiercely. _My reputation - my very existence, in fact - depends on getting back those prisoners and proving that I can manage this camp with an iron fist. _

Minutes later, the lieutenants brought in Colonel Hogan. He smiled at Klink as he entered, in that cheeky, impish way which never failed to grate on his nerves.

"Good afternoon, Kommandant," he said, barely managing to give a salute.

He whipped off his officer's cap and tossed it over Klink's _pickelhaube_. When he sat down and started to reach for the humidor, any thread of patience Klink may have possessed promptly snapped. He rose from his chair, pulled the officer's cap aside, and smacked away the colonel's wandering hand.

Hogan snatched his hand back, looking hurt and shocked.

"Gee, a simple 'no' would have sufficed," he complained. "I guess this isn't going to be one of our friendly social visits, then?"

Klink glared at him, wondering how long he could maintain his composure _and_ tame his growing flood of anger against Hogan's wisecracking.

"Colonel Hogan, I will get straight to the point," he said, "and I insist that you do the same, as well. Do you know anything about the escapes of those twelve prisoners?"

"Well, that depends," Hogan replied. He donned a look of innocence. "You'll have to be more specific, Colonel. Were they from our camp? What time of day did this happen? Are..."

"You _know_ what I'm talking about!" interrupted Klink. His hands clenched at his sides. He fought the temptation to step around his desk so that he could properly throttle Hogan. "The prisoners from Barracks 3, 7, and 12. The barracks leaders informed me of their disappearances this morning. I, of course, had to report the incident to Burkhalter, who was _extremely_ displeased with me."

A look of understanding seemed to dawn on Hogan's face. Klink could never be certain when the man was just acting or actually being genuine.

"So, you think _I'm_ involved in helping those men escape?" he asked. When Klink nodded sharply, he said, "Come on, Sir, that's ridiculous! You know how much we all love it here. No pillows, drafty huts, itchy blankets, lice by the thousands...why would we _ever_ want to leave that?"

Klink closed his eyes and took a slow, uneven breath. _Strike me down right here, Lord,_ he thought._ I know you are laughing at my pain, and let me tell you, I would rather freeze to death than tolerate one more second of this man's audacity!_

"Answer my question, Hogan," he said at length.

There was a pause as the other colonel averted his gaze. Then he asked, "I'm sorry, what was the question again?"

Klink sank into his chair with a groan. This conversation was getting him nowhere! He might as well start packing his suitcase for the Russian Front this very minute. His earlier resolve to fight his anxiety crumbled like sand. The pressure in his chest felt like the force of an entire ocean, straining for release, and he barely managed to push it back by sheer willpower.

With a painful effort, he gathered enough strength to push himself forward and walk over to the schnapps decanter. He unstoppered it and began pouring into one of the glasses. His hands were shaking (of course, why _wouldn't_ they?), and although he spilled some of the alcohol in the process, he didn't care. He drank at least three or four shots before Hogan intervened.

"Whoa...take it easy with the booze, Kommandant!"

Hogan quickly eased the glass and the decanter out of his hands. Klink didn't oppose him; he observed as the items were set down, and felt his arms being gripped tightly. What _was_ it with Hogan gripping him like that lately? It was irritating, to say the least.

After both of them had settled down and reclaimed their seats, Hogan's face twisted with guilt. Klink could definitively sense that he wasn't acting, this time.

"Forgive me, Sir," he said. Klink thought for a moment that he would expand on that apology, based on the way his eyes seemed to flash with sympathy. But then he went on, "The truth is...I _do_ know something about those prisoners, and it's been bothering me a lot, too. But I swear to you that they didn't clear an escape with me or anyone else in camp! I don't know exactly where they went, either. That's all I really know. If there's a way my men and I can help get them back, we'll gladly be at your disposal."

Klink could feel the ocean inside him recede further and further as Hogan spoke. Perhaps there _was_ some hope after all! But he couldn't shake the feeling that Colonel Hogan _did_ know more than he was letting on, that this could very well be an elaborate ruse to get rid of him. However, the kommandant's top priority was to locate the twelve prisoners. He didn't necessarily care _how_ it was done, or with _who_, at this point. All he craved now was some peace of mind, free of his horrible stress.

And if Hogan could - in any fashion - help him achieve this goal, then he was willing to do just about _anything_.

"All right, Colonel," he said. He forced a smile onto his face, and even tried to add a note of cheerfulness to his voice. "_Now_ we're starting to get somewhere."

...


	5. Misdirection

_V. Misdirection_

At Klink's insistence, Hogan pieced together what he knew (or perhaps, the kommandant thought, what he was willing to _admit_) about the situation.

"Most of those prisoners were new," said Hogan. His fingers were laced together in his lap, and he had put his cap back on at this point. "Roughly seven or so of them arrived a couple weeks ago, right? A few RAF fellows and several Air Corps non-comms, if I'm not mistaken. I could tell those guys were itching to get out. Always checking out the guard towers, watching the motor pool, observing everyone who came and went. They were memorizing the routines around here, no doubt about it, Colonel.

"I asked the barracks leaders to keep an eye on a few of the more roguish looking guys to be on the safe side. Looks like a few, uh, _seasoned_ prisoners from the camp decided to bail out, too. Including Davies and Barnes. Those two have always been...difficult.

"Judging by those footprints Schultz and the other guards found, and that hole in the fence along the eastern side, they used some good wire cutters or at least something fairly similar to get through. Given the fact that Davies and Barnes were there, it doesn't surprise me. They also knew to go for an escape in one of the less heavily patrolled areas of camp.

"You were smart to send Schultz out with that patrol earlier, Kommandant. He's dealt with Barnes and Davies' stunts before. If Schultz can find them and make them talk, they can probably lead him to the other prisoners."

Klink listened closely to Hogan's account of events, nodding occasionally to show that he was giving his attention. He remembered filling out the paperwork for his most recent captives, as well as going through his standard line of questioning with each man. One of those interactions had stood out in particular to him - his brief interview with a RAF Flight Sergeant by the name of Richard Clarke.

Looking back on it now, the man looked like a living _embodiment_ of mischief. Klink recalled that Clarke's eyes had created this distinct impression, along with the mess of black, flyaway curls on his head. Clarke's eyes were the palest blue color Klink had ever seen, almost the color of snow. They had a certain..._dark_ twinkle about them, too. It was as if Clarke could see the secrets of every person around him and understood how to twist them to his benefit.

"Do you understand what is expected of you during your imprisonment at Stalag 13?" Klink had asked, when Clarke was first brought into his office.

Clarke had grinned, an action that was somehow both friendly and unsettling.

"Of course, dear chap," he had replied. "You can say a lot about us Englishman, but we _do _love going about rules and protocols the _right_ way. Not like those cheeky Americans, tossing that all that so-called 'rubbish' down the bin."

Then Clarke held out his hand, and although Klink was reluctant to shake it, he forced himself to return the gesture politely.

"Take my word for it, Kommandant," Clarke had said. His grin seemed to unfurl even more across his face. "You'll soon see how a prisoner of war is _supposed_ to act."

Now Klink closed his eyes, as the veil of geniality Clarke had thrown over him was ripped back.

_Burkhalter was right...y__ou _are _a fool, Wilhelm, _he thought. _How could you refuse to acknowledge what that sergeant was doing before? _

"Sergeant Clarke," he muttered aloud. "Oh, _verdammt. Ich hätte es wissen sollen..._"

Hogan's brows crinkled. "Clarke, Sir? He was one of the escapees."

"Yes," agreed Klink. "He's one of the three missing from Barracks 7. I _knew _something felt off about him when he came here! But after he seemed to get along with the other prisoners and follow instructions, I quickly dismissed it."

The kommandant bowed his head for a moment, that familiar ripple of shame coursing through him. Another voice joined his inner choir of discontent - the voice of his father. _Oblivious...imbecile...you could never do anything right! Look what your ignorance has earned you this time! _He tried his best to tune him out.

"You think this Sergeant Clarke might have orchestrated the escapes?" Hogan prodded, drawing Klink back to the present.

Klink spread his hands, as if imploring the other officer to suggest an answer. "Maybe, maybe not. All I know is that I have to do _something,_ instead of sitting here speculating or waiting on Captain Gruber to update me on the situation. I need to get out there _myself_ and help recover those prisoners!"

He knew it would be cold outside, so he rose to grab his cap and overcoat from the rack by the door. He scanned the room for his riding crop, but no luck. He sighed in frustration. Not important, he told himself. He'd already wasted enough time feeling miserable and trusting his guards to do the challenging work for him. Well, no more!

"I'm coming with you, Sir."

Klink turned to see that Hogan had joined his side. He managed a stern glare.

"_Hogan,_" he said in a warning tone.

But the colonel smiled without humor.

"Sorry, not negotiable." Before Klink could protest, he continued, "Someone has to watch your back, Kommandant, _and_ make sure those men will actually return here in one piece."

Klink didn't have the patience to argue. His willpower had been drained trying to hold himself together and not succumb to another breakdown. He waved indifferently at Hogan.

"Come, don't come...it makes no difference to me anymore," he sighed. "But so help me God, Colonel Hogan, if you try any monkey business, _you_ are going to pay for my next psychiatrist."

The reminder of their earlier conversation had its intended effect. Hogan lowered his gaze and resolutely kept his mouth shut, as they departed the kommandantur together.

...


	6. Relief

_VI. Relief_

Klink and Hogan had only just finished descending the steps of the office when Captain Gruber, coming from the direction of the main gates, raced over to them. He stopped before the colonels in a breathless state. His glasses hung askew on his face, and his wide pale eyes wide were locked on Klink.

"Colonel," he gasped. He bent down to put his hands on his knees, still inhaling laboriously. Then he straightened up again to continue, "Schultz and the guards...they have returned!"

Klink's heart skipped a whole measure. When it found the proper rhythm again he clasped Gruber's coat sleeve, frantically praying that his adjunct would deliver the best possible news.

"Y-Yes, and..." he managed, in a shaky undertone, "...were they successful?"

Gruber's answering grin was both a welcome and gratifying sight.

He said, laughing in amazement, "Yes, _Herr Kommandant..._I can hardly believe it! I'll let Sergeant Schultz fill you in...on the details, but I must say it is just...just _incredible_. The prisoners were...scattered all around the area, some in groups of two or three, and Schultz and the rest...were able to apprehend them with...with little to no conflict."

Klink sighed, a profuse sense of calm flowing through him. He may have outright sobbed with gratitude if Gruber and Hogan weren't present.

As the tension seemed to rush out of him all at once, he watched Gruber unsling one of the hand-held radio transceivers from his shoulder. He began speaking into it: "_Der Kommandant wurde informiert. Bringen Sie sie herein, Feldwebel._"

Klink nearly gave in to the temptation to sob when his eyes rested on the main gates again. Schultz, the guards, and the prisoners were beginning to reenter. A few guards had their rifles drawn and pointed at the prisoners, some of whom either tossed frustrated looks behind them or kept their heads bowed low.

Klink silently counted each prisoner, part of him almost not trusting Gruber's testimony...z_ehn...elf...zwölf_! A soft, relieved laugh escaped him. He turned to Hogan, stretching out his hand until it rested on the officer's shoulder.

Tension veiled Hogan's face - no doubt he was thinking of the reprimanding he would have to give the escaped men - but as he looked at Klink, his features mellowed into a smile.

"Burkhalter will be happy now, won't he?" said Hogan, still smiling.

Klink sighed. Although the thought of Burkhalter didn't fill him with as much dread as it had before, he didn't look forward to speaking to his superior again. And oh, the _paperwork..._

"One can only hope," he said. "Trying to figure out General Burkhalter is like trying to tame a wild boar...dangerous and absurd."

That got a chuckle out of Hogan.

"Don't worry," he said. "If 'Boar-halter' comes charging, we'll be ready for him. What matters is that we've got all of those prisoners back. And trust me, Kommandant, they _won't_ be making the same mistake twice. I'll see to that myself."

Klink searched the colonel's face, perhaps to see if any of his usual ill-intent lingered there. But there was none, and Klink realized then that he believed him. He believed that Hogan would do as he said and try to keep those men from making another escape.

"_Thank you,_" whispered Klink, so that only Hogan could hear. He finally let his hand fall away from the colonel's shoulder. Then he began to make his way toward the gates with Hogan and Gruber following close behind.

...

_Notes:_

That's a wrap for the first set of chapters! I may return to the idea of anxiety at some point or pick up some threads that were left here. But the next series of chapters will shift the focus to a different aspect of Klink. Stay tuned! ;-)


	7. (1) Expression

_I. Expression_

Ever since he could remember, Klink loved to draw. All he needed was a good solid pencil and some paper, and he could make a sketch of his bedroom, his favorite toy, or even the forest where he and his sister Lotte liked to play. As he got older he even turned his hand to charcoal, pastels, and a little bit of watercolor.

He was still proud of the one (and only) good oil painting he made of his parents for their wedding anniversary one year. It wasn't a large piece by any means, but he had spent what seemed like _weeks_ on it. He carefully applied each stroke to the canvas, constantly worried that he would ruin the whole painting and have to start over. When it was finally finished and he presented it to his parents, his mother almost immediately hugged him and burst into tears. His father, by contrast, had nodded solemnly and said nothing.

To this day, the painting hung in his mother's bedroom over her bureau. Sometimes Klink would catch her looking at it during one of his visits (which were becoming less and less frequent now) with a small, proud smile tugging at her lips.

"You would have made a good, respectable painter, _mein Liebling,_" his mother had said to him on a recent visit, cupping his hand in hers. They were sitting next to each other in her small kitchen, drinking tea with cream and letting the conversation meander where it wanted.

"I believe that you could still paint, if you wished to," she continued. "But with the bans they put on all of that art, and those exhibitions that were done...perhaps it is best to wait. You still make sketches sometimes, _ja, _Will?"

_"Ja,_ Mama," he replied, nodding. "I try to keep a book or pad at my desk, for when I have the urge to sketch. But my time is still quite spoken-for. The camp..." He stopped himself. He knew his mother didn't like to hear about his position as kommandant, and he tried to make a point of avoiding the subject whenever he could.

"My duties are exhausting," he quickly concluded.

His mother nodded also and slipped her hand away from his. The smile had sunk away from her face.

"I know your father did not always appreciate your talents," she said softly. "And I know he did not always understand your passions. But listen to me, _Liebling..._it is not too late to do something for yourself. Something that feels...right in your soul, _ja_? I do not want to see you give that up completely. But do be careful. With the ways things are now, you do not want to get yourself into trouble for making a work of art. Whatever you may decide to do, know that you have my support and my love."

Klink's hand had tensed into fists as his mother spoke, but now, he felt that squall drift away. He never knew how to feel about his father - outraged, confused, sympathetic, or resigned? And those feelings certainly didn't change once his father passed on a few years ago. The storm of emotions inside Klink only seemed to grow, churning and building up momentum.

But he also felt warmth spread through him at his mother's words. It had been difficult, almost _painful,_ to turn his back on making art regularly. Except for the occasional sketch - of a rabbit outside his office window, for example, or a small caricature of himself - he never sat down and devoted the time he would have liked to the craft. Such forms of expression were increasingly few and far between for him. But that urge was always there, thrumming in his fingertips - a creative energy waiting to rush out.

Klink felt his mother wrapped her arms around him, and with a grateful sigh, he leaned into her embrace.

...

_Notes:_

As you can tell, these next few chapters will explore Klink's artistic side. I've always enjoyed the episode "Klink's Masterpiece" from season 6, which gave me the idea to pursue this thread of thought. However, I would like to deviate from the episode in a few ways and see where that leads me. :)

_* Historical note: _

In the 1930s, the Third Reich began banning a lot of modern art and even seized works from various artists - including Paul Klee, Max Beckmann, Ernst Ludwig Kirschner, Pablo Picasso, and Vincent van Gogh. Exhibitions of what was labeled "degenerate art" also appeared, with more than 650 works displayed as a form of mockery. The term "degenerate" was applied to films and music, as well. Wikipedia has some basic information about this on the "German art" and "Degenerate art" pages. But I recommend looking at other sites for more in-depth info.


	8. (2) Chiaroscuro

_II. Chiaroscuro_

Klink had once dreamed of attending a fine arts school back in 1913. His first choice was the _Universität der Künste _in Berlin, followed closely by the Grand Ducal Saxon College of Fine Arts in Weimar.

He thought his body of work was becoming quite impressive by that point. He had done numerous studies in pencil and charcoal, and his handling of watercolor was also making a steady improvement. He used a lot of his spare time to sketch or paint - hands, mind, and paper all taking up a dazzling and impassioned dance. He felt restless but in the best sense, for determination and excitement drove him onward.

There was, however, a skill that he had yet to master: how to talk to his father.

...

Will was nineteen at the time, and he was just finishing his last year of studies at the _G__ymnasium__. _Everyone he had spoken to — his friends, his teachers, and even a select few members of his family — had encouraged him to pursue art. But when he, after much inner debate and unease, finally gathered up the courage to express this dream to his father, the older man became stubborn and even a bit livid.

"Do you have no concern for an honorable career, Wilhelm?" he demanded. "All I see for you is struggle, disappointment, and regret if you continue with this...this _hobby_! No, all of the respectable men in our family have served in the_ Deutsches Heer._ Just look at your grandfather. What a fine general, indeed! If it wasn't for this damned heart condition of mine...oh, what I could have _done."_

His father fell silent. He paced the length of the bedroom, hands clasped behind his back and eyebrows drawn inward in tense contemplation. In the elder Klink's presence, the once luminous space seemed to gather darkness like an overcast sky. Will began to fidget, worried what else his father might say or do. But at last, frustration overrode his reticence.

"Do you think I am a terrible artist, then?" asked Will suddenly. "Is that why you think I shouldn't bother doing it?"

His father turned, startled by the outburst. "I beg your pardon?"

Will met his stormy glare despite his fluttering nerves. His boldness starting to wan, he said, "I...I have worked too hard to simply let my talents go to waste, Papa. If you will not support me, so be it. Perhaps..."

But his father cut him off.

"It doesn't matter to me whether you are a terrible artist or not," he snapped.

He took a short, impatient breath through his nose. Then he nodded, as if a decision was now thoroughly set in his mind.

"If you won't accept the honor of the _Deutsches Heer_ willingly, then you give me no other choice, Wilhelm. Yes...I know of an academy in Potsdam. A venerated, disciplined school, just what someone with your lack of experience needs. Your uncle might be disposed to recommend you."

Will opened his mouth to protest, but the conversation was finished as far as his father was concerned. He turned and marched out of the room without another word.

And, less than a year after that disastrous exchange, he found himself giving in to his father's wishes and attending the military academy in Potsdam. It was probably one of the most painful decisions in his life. From that day onward, every time he looked back on it, he resented not speaking up more, for letting the matter die in favor of keeping the peace.

_If only, _he thought. _If only it could have happened differently..._


End file.
